


Tobacco

by fem (orphan_account)



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Death, M/M, Phan - Freeform, Smoking, smoke, smokers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4033384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/fem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't quit cigarettes because they've become a part of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tobacco

**Author's Note:**

> this story is written by fem but has been orphaned bc I don't really like it anymore. thanks.

He loathes cigarettes, the smokey essence they leave behind, the charred tobacco smell, the tears that bring them to him and especially the disappointment left behind. He loathes cigarettes, but he can't quit.  
Children are taught that cigarettes are bad and disgusting and that the only thing they do are cause death and heartbreak, but the British curriculum doesn't include how relaxing they are, just to have sitting between your lips, sometimes even unlit, a subtle weight to replace a heavy one, is so peaceful.  
Peace.  
Still, peace doesn't explain why sometimes he will smoke an entire pack a day and cough so loudly he almost fears death before realising he doesn't really actually fear death and by smoking he is indirectly welcoming it.  
He loves peace and pain and smoking but he doesn't like being a disappointment, especially to someone in the likes of Phil. Sunshine, a sweet sprinkle of sugar in an otherwise bitter world of coffee. He can't stand hurting Phil, and he knows he is when he looks into Phil's blue eyes and all he can see in them is a reflection of his own grey self.  
Sometimes he believes he's fading away into the very cloud of smoke at the end of his cigarette.

"You have to stop." Phil begs. His eyes wander over Phil and notice his slouch, his mouth lines that are exaggerated drastically by a frown, his thumbs fidgeting with themselves, his attempts of avoiding eye contact.  
"I'll try." He says.  
"Don't give me that, again!" Phil cries, "You need to stop trying and start doing!"  
"Okay." He promises, but Phil has already left, and his promise blows in the wind. Never mind.

That night he coughs so hard he can hardly breath and afterwards his throat is so sore he can't sleep, even after drinking three glasses of water his oesophagus is so raw he ends up staying up the whole night staring at the ceiling thinking of the world.  
By the morning his throat is almost fine. He bumps into Phil in the kitchen. Phil's forehead is so alive with worried creases and under his eyes are almost a deep purple.  
He knows he wasn't the only one to lose sleep from his incessant coughing fits.  
Five minutes later and he's taking a drag.

"I'm telling you —" Phil warns.  
"Well, stop." He says, but his voice is slightly raspy. His throat sore from yet another fit.  
"I'm worried about you." Phil puts a hand on his arm, but he shakes it off.  
"Stop! Mind your own fucking business!" He leaves the room in a flurry of anger. Within the next two hours he has successfully smoked an entire pack, locked in his room.  
"You are my business." Phil whispers to no one.

It's like he's choking on smoke, and he's crying and gasping but he keeps going for more until he's surrounded by burnt out cigarette butts. He's swimming in tobacco and drowning in ash. His brown hair has turned grey before his clouded eyes, and so has everything else, but only for a moment. When he blinks everything is normal, and he thinks the tears in his eyes are finally becoming known.  
He lights another cigarette.

Phil drags him in for a checkup. His coughing has become so harsh that he is actually coughing up specks of blood, but Phil doesn't know that part. Phil only knows what he can hear through the walls.  
They run a few tests.  
"The results will be in by Thursday. Do you want them mailed, or would you rather come in here for a full consultation?" The doctor asks.  
"We'll come in."

They come in.  
It's cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. The word doesn't fit into Phil's regular vocabulary. He'd rather discuss other things, not his roommate's illness. He doesn't look too phased, but Phil is different. Phil cries in front of the doctor so hard he has to leave.  
"There's treatment available, but there's no guarantee it will work." The doctor informs him.  
"Don't bother." He says coolly, standing up to leave. He tells Phil there's no treatment. He's a liar and he knows it, but Phil doesn't, so they go home just like that.  
If he listens hard enough he can hear sobbing coming from Phil's room.

"Don't forget me." Phil tells him.  
"What?"  
"If there's an afterlife, remember me. I want to see you again one day."  
"Move on."  
"You're my best friend."  
"Not for long."

He's right. Every day he gets paler than usual, and soon he's even paler than Phil. His hair sticks to his forehead in sweat, and he's growing weaker. Phil begins sleeping in his bed with him so he can keep watch. His breaths become shallow and ragged as if they're fought for, and Phil realises he hasn't smiled in at least a month.  
Phil doesn't even cry when he stops breathing, but instead he dials the hospital, unsure of what else to do. He can't even look at the body of his best friend.  
Not for long, he remembers. That's what finally makes him cry. The people from the hospital come to take him, and they offer Phil counselling. He declines, and tells them to ring his parents, tell them the cancer won.

Phil goes to the funeral after about an hour of deciding. He still doesn't want to, he hasn't prepared a speech, but he does have to make one. It's daunting to stand in front of all of his family, but Phil just wings it. He wants to call him an idiot, a fool, an imbecile, but he thinks that'd be offensive.  
"He was a friend of mine, my best one in fact. We lived together, and I was the one who he had his last moments with. I was also there when he was diagnosed. He wasn't even phased, even when they said he couldn't get any treatment. He was so brave. I wish I was half as brave as him.  
"When he was diagnosed, I cried more than he did, actually, he didn't cry a single bit. I cried a river and a bit. I'd be embarrassed but, well, it was serious. A terminal illness was not how I expected to lose my best friend.  
"He was... he... I saw it coming, you know. He smoked so much. I tried so hard to get him to stop but he never did. I even stole his cigarettes, hid his lighters, but he just bought more. I feel... I, I don't know... but sometimes I feel like it was my fault.  
"Like, I should've tried harder to get him to quit, but he didn't want to be helped. He was so addicted to cigarettes that he decided he didn't want anyone to help him. He was lost, but he didn't want to be found.  
"Rest in peace."  
Everyone echoes it back, and there are a few tears in people's eyes, especially Phil's. He listens to all the other speeches, and when they carry his casket outside and bury it six feet under, Phil leaves a flower on his grave,

REST IN PEACE  
PETER EVANS  
1989—2015  
A loving brother, son and friend. 

 

Phil walks to a park after the funeral and sits on a bench. In his pocket, he finds hidden a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, from a time he hid them from Peter, and he feels like he's about to cry. He pulls a single cigarette from the packet and stares at it between his fingers contemplating whatever there is to contemplate. Why to do this. Why he did this. Why would anyone. Why is he even thinking about this? Why, why, why?  
"Are you okay?" A stranger asks. His hair his brown, his eyes are too, and he has a friendly look in his eyes and on his smile, "Listen, you look a bit upset. Want to talk?"  
"I'm okay, just… contemplating." Phil sighs.  
"If it's about whether or not to light that cigarette, I have a suggestion." He puts out his palm and extends his arm forward. Phil places the cigarette in his hand. He grabs it and throws it into a nearby bin, about a meter or two away. "To be honest I'm surprised that even made it in."  
"Thanks. Wow, like really thanks. I was gonna—" Phil thanks the stranger until he is interrupted.  
"Yeah, well. We were all going to do something stupid once, sometimes we just need a little bit of help."  
"Phil. I'm Phil."  
"Dan."  
"Hi, Dan."  
"Hi, Phil." Dan says and Phil smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!! Thanks for reading this thing! It's a bit weird, but if you'd like any clarification just comment and I can clear things up a bit. A bit of Phil/OC but it's ok bc it's not like romantic or anything. This is a oneshot, there will be no parts, thanks and bye!
> 
> and yes I just reversed Evan Peters' name ok I'm entitled


End file.
